Cutlets

I'm not sure what is going on lately. I seem to be walking towards many women these days who are bra-less. These women are not young hipsters. They are well over 60 and very well endowed. I'm sure at one time, back in their 'hay day', they had a beautiful bosom. But now...

Ok, I should back track a bit. I'm a boob girl. I can't help looking at other women's cutlets. I think I became that way because, well, I am very petite in that department. One might say - self-conscious. One could conclude - jealous. There is a reason. 8th grade. I was one of those girls who would not sprout. When the entire gym class were in training bras, I was in, well, nothing. No...this is not my big scarring moment that made what I am today. Other girls, let's call them bitches, during lunch would circle around me and sing to me. Ah, the sweet serenade that they heard on TV during commercial breaks. Band-Aids. Remember that song? "I am stuck on band-aids, cause band-aids stuck on me!"

This became my theme song. Guys would pass me in the hall humming it. Tragic, scarring. It followed me everywhere. A guy I dated, ok, my EX-fiance, gave me a sweet pet name, "Little Hooters". He even tried to convince me to get a boob job. Ah, he was a keeper...a keeper of the compost pile!

So...this is my obsession with boobs. I notice them. I envy them.

Hugenormous (a word my 6 year old nephew uses) boobs seem to be popping up in front of me a lot these days. The boobs are seriously sagging past their waist. Is it too much to ask for them to hoist them up? Do I have to see the watermelons banging up against each other underneath shirts? Why can't I look away? I am a deer caught in headlights. I just stare, wondering, doesn't that hurt? Doesn't it hurt when they knock up against your knees?

Maybe I should be a bit more forgiving. Maybe after so many years of strapping those baby's down you just loose patience and you let it all hang out. I just wish I didn't have to witness it. It's like witnessing 2 greasy pigs trapped under a tarp trying to squirm their way out...

So...if I had to make a choice between greasy pigs bumping up agains my knees or always and forever passing the pencil test, I choose the pencil test.